


The ghosts that we knew

by gloria_scott



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:10:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1657724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky visits Steve in his sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The ghosts that we knew

**Author's Note:**

> Series of five double-drabbles plus one triple-drabble written for [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/19023.html?thread=43920719#t43920719) on the Avengerkink meme,  and further inspired by [this drawing by kaciart](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/85586017188).

I.

Steve dreams of the helicarrier ( _again_ _)_ but this time it's Bucky who falls ( _again_ _)_ and his cries cut jagged through smoke and twisting metal.

The smoke clears. He's at his mother's grave, the simple stone marker a tiny island in a sea of white crosses stretching to the horizon. There were so many he couldn't save.

A steady hand falls on his shoulder and a warm, familiar voice says, “You gave it your all, Stevie boy. Time to go home, get some rest. You earned it.”

“No,” Steve whispers, “I didn't.”

“You can't save everyone, you know.”

“I let you go, Buck. Gave you up for dead.” He turns and Bucky flashes a smile as cockeyed as his Army cap.

“Well then this time you better hang on, pal.”

He wakes in the half-light before dawn. A cool breeze stirs curtains on a window he doesn't remember leaving open. Bucky's presence lingers, ghostly fingers on bare skin. He rolls over, slinging an arm across the empty bed beside him. It's warm. He bolts for the window. A shadow flickers beneath a distant streetlight and is gone.

“Hang on, Bucky,” he murmurs into the breeze. “I'm not gonna let you go.”

 

II.

He's in a foxhole in Germany. Rain beats a staccato rhythm on his helmet, turning everything to mist and mud. He's cut off; just a radio tethers him to the outside world.

“This is Captain Rogers. Anyone there? Bucky? Bucky? I need you.”

The radio crackles with a voice that's tinny and thin, but he knows it.

“No you don't. Not anymore.”

“I'll always need you, Buck. You're my best friend.”

“Hate to break it to you, kid, but your friend is dead. Fell off a train and hit his head. He's a goner, the doctors said. So they bound him up in a flag of red.”

“Then who am I talking to?”

“Just a ghost who doesn't know when to give up his sheet.”

“Bucky, please.” He doesn't even know what he's asking for, but the lack of it's sharp like shrapnel in his chest. The rain stops, suddenly, as if a tap were turned.

“Hey kid.”

“Yeah?”

“Incoming.”

The shriek of mortars jolts him awake. Bright morning light streams through the open window. He gets up, stumbles to the bathroom, reaches for the shower faucet, stops. The shower walls glisten wet, and the bath mat is still damp.

 

III.

Black Forest, dusk. Steve sits against a tree, heedless of distant mortar fire. The fox is curled up in a tussock of long grass, resting but alert. Steve barely moves as he sketches, hoping it won't skedaddle before he can capture it. The fox's ears pivot to a rustle in the undergrowth. A few yards away, Bucky lies prone and gripping his rifle, the fox in his sights.

"Bucky, no," Steve whispers.

"What do you care? It's just a stupid animal," Bucky whispers back.

"It doesn't deserve a bullet."

"It's probably rabid, diseased. I'd be doing it a favor, putting it down. Doing you a favor."

Steve shakes his head. No.

"You can't trust wild animals, dumbass. They bite. "

The fox startles but never gets a chance to run.

The ghost of the muzzle flash fades to gray in the dark room. Steve senses the weight next to him before his eyes adjust, hears the soft cadence of breath denoting sleep. He holds his own breath, keeps as still as stone so as not to wake his wary prey. But something betrays him and Bucky stiffens, then springs. He's out the window before Steve can even call his name.

 

IV.

He's in Erskine's lab. His arms – thin as willow switches – are strapped into the Vita-Ray machine. Peggy's hovering over him, checking dials and flashing a reassuring smile.

“You need to stop chasing ghosts, Steve.”

“I can't, Peggy. I promised.”

“Your friend is gone, you know. Are you prepared to accept what he is now?”

She withdraws, revealing Bucky strapped down next to him in a machine of twisted black metal. Someone flips a switch, and Bucky's screams echo in Steve's skull.

When he wakes, Bucky's still next to him, whimpering and thrashing in his sleep.

Steve stifles the impulse to grab him, softly calls his name instead.

“Bucky.”

No response.

“Bucky!” There's a quiet beat before Bucky sits up, chest heaving, sweat dripping.

“It's okay. You're safe here.”

Bucky tilts his head, stares right through him. The whites of his eyes gleam dimly in the dark. It's some time before the tension uncoils in him, but eventually his shoulders slump and his head nods forward. Steve reaches out to guide him back with a gentle tug on his elbow. Bucky dodges him and rolls out of bed, slipping through the window without looking back. Steve doesn't try to stop him.

 

V.

"They saw it again," Bucky says.

They're side by side, bare skin casually touching, secure behind the walls of their carefully constructed blanket fort. Telling ghost stories in the dark.

"Who saw what?” Steve asks, though he knows where this is going.

"The Connolly twins. Saw that disembodied head again."

“Say they did, maybe.”

“No, really. It floated up and hung reflecting in the window of Vesuvio's Bakery, all droop-eyed and bloody. Mouthing something...it looked like,” his voice became a guttural wheeze, “Help me, Stevie!”

“Shut up.”

“Don't leave me here to die.”

“Shut up!” Steve's elbow finds a soft spot between Bucky's ribs.

Bucky yelps and laughs. “You're not scared of ghosts, are you?”

A heavy shift in the mattress wakes him. Steve rolls onto his back, stares up at the ceiling.

"Remember when that Sears delivery truck decapitated that guy in the sidecar? And you took me to see it and I threw up all over my new shoes?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“Mom wouldn't let you in the house for two weeks after that."

Steve spins stories of memories until Bucky's fast asleep, then keeps watch until dawn. This time when he leaves, Bucky does look back.

 

VI.

Steve hasn't slept in a week. For once, Bucky's not even on his radar – it's been at least a month since his last nocturnal visit. When Steve finally gets home from the latest mission, he hangs his keys by the door and toes off his shoes, then drags himself into the kitchen for a snack. The kitchen counter holds several days' worth of mess: half-eaten loaf of bread, open jar of peanut butter (with knife), dirty mugs and dishes that never made it to the sink, cold coffee in the pot. He hurries to the bedroom and Bucky's there, lying on his back in Steve's bed as if he'd been invited.

“Hey, Bucky.”

Bucky peers up at him in the dark. “Hey, Steve.”

The unexpected response makes his breath hitch and pause before he says, “You left a mess in the kitchen. Were you raised by wolves or something?”

The ghost of a smile drifts across Bucky's lips, but never reaches his eyes. They regard each other through heavy silence. Bucky's alert but relaxed, makes no move to leave, so Steve ups the ante and climbs in next to him.

Bucky turns his back to him - a sign of trust or secrecy? Steve assumes the former and goes all in, reaching out, wrapping his fingers around the curve of Bucky's shoulder.

"I'm glad you're here."

"Shut up," Bucky fires back. But before Steve can withdraw, Bucky starts to tremble, then shake. His breath comes in rasping gasps, and he turns to Steve, eyes wild and wide, looking for something to bring him home. And Steve wraps around him and holds on for dear life, murmuring “I gottcha, Buck,” into his hair and stroking his back, until the tremors subside and the light of morning breaks through the open window.


End file.
